


There's a Lot of Love in this Place

by meekan (atomeek)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Absurd Shenanigans, Alternate Universe - College/University, Chance Meetings, Explicit Language, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Getting Together, M/M, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-11
Updated: 2015-06-11
Packaged: 2018-04-03 22:26:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4117042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atomeek/pseuds/meekan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s not love at first sight. It rarely is.</p>
<p>Three (awkward, ridiculous, absurd) times Matsukawa and Hanamaki encounters each other during the semester before something like love actually happens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There's a Lot of Love in this Place

**Author's Note:**

> A triple college/university au feature:
> 
> The “you never close your curtains when you change and it’s too nice of a view and I can’t look away so I’m ended up late for class” AU
> 
> The “we both don't have enough coins to afford a cycle of drying so we split one and now I have a pair of your underwear by accident” AU
> 
> The “you grabbed a bunch of condoms from student services because they came in dessert flavours but we ran into each other by accident and they all fell out of your pocket cue the awkward staring” AU
> 
> The first is a well-known prompt I've seen around tumblr, but specifically found [here](http://callistawolf.tumblr.com/post/100809913937/swimcoachtachibana-queerlullaby). The second one I made up but I've seen lots of fun laundry-themed prompts! (I have a thing for laundry imagery okay??) The third one is a variation of this prompt: [here](http://wyattish.tumblr.com/post/114192842228/my-college-experiences-that-would-make-great-fic).
> 
> Title is from The Mowgli's [_I'm Good_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eHT5KNoWjzY).

He’s the kind of boy who would wear white Converse sneakers just because he’s confident enough to think he’d never get them dirty. He’s the kind of boy who would always keep a book on him at all times because he actually _reads_ , on the train ride home with a highlighter to mark all the best quotes, and the kind of boy who would laugh before he understood the joke but when he got it, he’d _really_ laugh then.

He’s just the kind of boy that Matsukawa would spend his Friday nights and Saturday mornings playing video games against and he’s the kind of friend he’d call his best, the one he’d trust the most.

He also happens to be the kind of person Matsukawa would end up falling for, eventually, inevitably.

(Unsurprisingly, with those kinds of arms and those kinds of legs, and that kind of _hair_.)

 

 

Matsukawa thinks, of all his university years, it’s the last one before he moves off campus that he gets a crappy dorm.

It’s not like it’s terrible, but the place doesn’t even have a name, merely referred to as the shit-brown dorm building that hosts mediocre parties. 

On top of that kind of reputation, it has to share all its facilities with the newly-renovated dorm next door which means crossing an entire courtyard for cafeteria food, laundry and most annoyingly, _showers_.

Matsukawa has all but abandoned hope for his preference of showering before class—there’s no possible way he’ll make it over there and back on time.

It takes him less than a week to get used to the lack of morning showers, Matsukawa valuing his sleep too much to give all that much of a damn. After all, it only takes two seconds to swipe the deodorant stick a few extra times under his arms.

It also only takes two seconds for Matsukawa to notice a half-naked back in the building across from him and _exactly_ two seconds for his jaw to drop.

Two seconds lasts for five minutes as he shamelessly _stares_. He can’t be faulted when curtains are included in every dorm room and if that ridiculously fit guy in the dorm straight across from his window doesn’t put his to use, Matsukawa won’t be the one to complain.

He can’t when he’s too busy staring, taking in every line of every muscle. Matsukawa can’t do _anything_ when he’s too busy imagining tracing those lines, every one with his fingers and then his tongue.

The tan on the other’s skin contrasts sharply with the white towel that’s draped over his head, the white towel that hangs on to his hips, but just barely and it’s so enticing, seeing so much yet not enough, not all of it.

That attractive asshole must have just taken a shower because he _can_ , that bastard who actually lives in the same building as the communal showers.

As bitter as he is, Matsukawa is also so thankful the other doesn’t turn around because he just remembers that _he’s_ never put his curtains to use either and that he’s _still_ staring.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he hisses, diving behind his bed. He wrangles on a wrinkled t-shirt just as his alarm rings for the fourth time this morning—his final warning before he’s _really_ late. 

He scrambles for his bag, his shoes, catching a last glimpse of his attractive next-building neighbour as he grabs his keys and _runs._  

This can _not_ be a daily occurrence, Matsukawa begs in his head as he speeds towards the lecture hall, he’s too weak, too defenceless against well-toned muscled backs wet from a morning shower.

 

 

 

Predictably, it becomes a daily occurrence. Predictably, Matsukawa learns to wake up just a little bit earlier.

 

 

 

It’s a quiet Tuesday night, several weeks after the start of the semester when Matsukawa finally runs out of clean clothes and has to lug his entire closet down eight flights of stairs. Because obviously the elevator would be broken on the day he needs to wash half a person’s weight in clothes.

By the time he gets there, his arms have turned into the overcooked spaghetti he’s had for dinner everyday for the past week or so and he has sweat entirely through his Mr. Children t-shirt. He’s really regretting quitting volleyball after high school now. 

The laundry room is as clean and adequate as you would expect from a public laundry room shared by two buildings worth of university students—a couple of lost socks sitting in broken baskets, empty packages of detergent that missed the garbage can and an entire wardrobe’s worth of forgotten bras and underwear that no one wants to reclaim. 

Collapsing onto one of the plastic chairs, he sits his bag of laundry between his knees, trying to separate between the blacks and whites and colours. He’s heard more than enough horror stories from Iwaizumi about way too many shirts and shorts and practically all his underwear being dyed pink from Oikawa’s favourite pair of red boxer briefs to risk his own.

“Are you colour-blind?”

Matsukawa doesn’t immediately realise that the question is directed at him until he catches a fluorescent _something_ spinning round and round in the corner of his eye.

“What?” He glances upwards and sees a guy, taller than most but about average compared to most of the people Matsukawa knows. His hair is an odd light-brown, bordering on pink and his bangs are cut short and nearly straight across.

It’s one of the most ridiculous haircuts Matsukawa’s ever seen but the underwear he’s spinning on his forefinger is even more ridiculous.

“Are you colour-blind,” the other man repeats, slowing the spin of the fluorescent underwear until it casually hangs from the tip of his finger and Matsukawa can see how, incredulously, it’s made of multi-coloured shapes set on a blindingly bright blue background. “Or is black and white just your aesthetic?”

Matsukawa blinks, slowly glancing down at his piles of clothes. The black and white is clearly outnumbering the colours, most of which are t-shirts too threadbare to be worn anywhere but to bed.

“Colours don’t really work that well on me,” he says, as some sort of explanation that no one asked for.

“I know minimalism is in and all but don’t you think it could be fun if you dressed a little—livelier?”

“Like your boxers?” Matsukawa says drily, propping his chin to stare half-lidded at the other man.

“If you think this is lively, you should see the pair I have on right now,” the smirk he shoots Matsukawa is so attractive and so, _so_ wicked.

The thumbs he hooks into his belt loops are even worse, dragging his waistband down until even calling it low-riding is pushing it. It’s not until Matsukawa is treated to a peek of coarse light brown hair bordering on pink that he realises there are no boxers that the other wants him to see, and his mouth instantly goes dry.

“You’re not really—” Matsukawa croaks out and he flushes at the fact that his voice hasn’t sounded this close to cracking since he was actually 12-years-old and going through puberty. 

“Up to you,” the other man shrugs, fingers halting his pants against his hips and that flash of skin is even more attractive than the sight of a muscled back he gets treated to every morning from the dorm room across from his window—because it’s within reach and he’s _allowed_. “If you want.”

“I do,” Matsukawa swallows, ignoring the amused look on the other’s face. “I am. I’m up for it.”

“Right now?” And suddenly he looks a little unsure, a little more self-conscious, cheeks tinting a colour similar to his hair as if he forgot that he had just boldly offered to pull down his pants in front of a stranger.

“Yeah, I mean, but only if you want.”

“No, I do, I just—didn’t think you’d say yes,” he laughs, a hint of nervousness but it still sounds as colourful as that ridiculous underwear he is still holding on to. “I didn’t expect my flirting to actually _work_.” 

“Are you calling me easy?” Matsukawa raises a thick brow, looking the other up and down like he is sizing him up for a fight, but actually taking the time to admire the view. 

“What’s wrong with easy?” He tosses back without missing a beat and even if the mood has turned from hot and bothered to comfortable room temperature, Matsukawa can’t say he’s disappointed.

“Nothing,” Matsukawa shakes his head, ducking his head down to muffle his snort into his black-and-white clothes. “Nothing’s wrong with easy if you’re still willing to work.”

He nearly misses the contemplative look on the other’s face, and somehow, that’s attractive too, the way it’s so subtle, like the tint of pink in his hair, on his cheeks.

It’s all surprisingly endearing.

 

 

 

“So let me get this straight, or not so straight,” Oikawa snickers, breaking off to laugh at his own joke. Iwaizumi doesn’t even need to raise his eyes from his textbook to swat his boyfriend on the back of head. “Ow, Iwa-chan, I’m just talking to Mattsun. So rude.”

“Laughing and disturbing the peace is not talking, Oikawa,” he snaps, aggressively uncapping a pink highlighter and drawing a streak over several lines of text.

“He’s just grumpy ‘cause his coffee was too bitter this morning since we ran out of milk,” Oikawa singsongs, idly picking up his cellphone. He’s not remotely discreet when he snaps a picture of Iwaizumi in the middle of rubbing his eyes beneath his glasses but Matsukawa is certain that Iwaizumi won’t even notice, not when he’s not even aware of Instagram’s existence, let alone Oikawa’s 9000-followers strong account. “Hash tag someone-is-grumpy, hash tag 2-cool-4-starbucks, hash tag ooh-megane-kun—posted!”

Matsukawa pointedly avoids Oikawa’s wink of victory, groaning into his cup of black tea as he recalls why he even blurted out last night’s encounter to someone like Oikawa.

“So you were going to blow him in the laundry room and backed out?”

“I didn’t _back out_ ,” Matsukawa rolls his eyes.

“But you _didn’t_ blow him,” Oikawa points out, using the straw from his iced tea to point at Matsukawa.

“It was a mutual decision not to.”

“And then you guys did laundry.”

“I need clean clothes,” Matsukawa defends, frowning at where exactly Oikawa is going with recounting his laundry room meeting, step-by-step.

“And then you guys shared a dryer.”

“So what?” 

“Sounds awfully like something Daichi and Mr. Refreshing would do,” Oikawa hums thoughtfully. “Sounds awfully _domestic_ , Mattsun.”

“We’re both broke college students!” Matsukawa groans, dropping his head back to stare at the high ceiling of the cafeteria, letting his tired vision be drowned out by stale fluorescent lights. “We’re just saving our money for classes and textbooks and stupid fees. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“It means he trusts you, Mattsun.”

“To what, not steal his underwear?” Matsukawa snorts, fluorescent shapes clashing behind his eyelids on a background so blue he remembers the way it hurt his eyes. “With his fashion choices, I don’t think I’d be worried if I were him.”

Oikawa’s face turns uncharacteristically serious, and Matsukawa expects him to drop one of his famous profoundly insightful comments that only comes out either in the middle of a volleyball court or when he’s so beyond drunk, his words unslur themselves in his mouth.

“He trusted you not to bite off his dick, Mattsun.

“I’m going to kill you, Oikawa.”

“Don’t do that, he has to go to class in ten minutes. And you have to finish your degree.”

“Yes, dad.”

“ _What was that, Matsukawa_?”

“I’ll just leave.”

“That’s the highest level of trust, I’m telling you, Mattsun, it’s—mmf—Iwa-chan!”

“ _Bye_ , Iwaizumi.”

“Good luck, Matsukawa.”

 

 

 

It’s another three days before Matsukawa is forced to think about that almost-sexual encounter he had in the laundry room.

Not that it wasn’t constantly haunting his mind, 24/7, those eyes, that hair, that _goddamn smirk on those goddamn lips_.

Even his daily dose of well-toned muscles in the dorm across his window isn’t enough and he’s starting to imagine damp light brown bordering on pink hair underneath that towel and he’s definitely been imagining those arms pulling on obnoxiously bright underwear up those legs, those thighs, those _hips_.

(Or alternatively, dragging them down, down, _down_ until it hooks on a single ankle like it was hooked on a forefinger, spinning round and round until Matsukawa can’t even remember what program he’s studying.)

It’s on the third day that Matsukawa gets a face full of that same fluorescent underwear he’s been fantasizing about while he tugs on the same Mr. Children shirt he had worn exactly three days prior.

And if that isn’t fate, or karma, or just plain bad luck, Matsukawa doesn’t want to know what is.

“I’m so fucked.” He wants to cry, or laugh—or cry. One arm is wrenched in a sleeve, the other caught in the neck entangled with that pair of ridiculous underwear. “ _So_ fucked.”

(Somehow, that realisation isn’t as devastating, as world-shattering, as absolutely astounding as he had thought it might be.)

(In fact, he actually, sort of, kind of, really looked forward to it.)

 

 

 

“Don’t follow me home if you don’t intend to stay the night,” He calls out, casually as if he hadn’t just caught Matsukawa trailing him ever since they left the lecture hall building, holding a hand mockingly to his chest. “It’ll break my heart.”

Matsukawa frowns. Perhaps he should have worn cleaner underwear tonight, now that he’s actually done his laundry.

“I live in the same building.” It’s not a lie, Matsukawa tells himself, they were connected by the common area on the first floor. Architecturally speaking, they do live in the same building-structure-thing and it’s not as if the other would know where he lived anyway.

“Hmm, nope. I’m pretty sure I’ve seen you through your window, across the courtyard,” the other man hums teasingly and even has the audacity to lean his back against the lamp post he stands under, tuck his hands into the pockets of his jeans as he waits for Matsukawa to catch up from under the shadows where the lamp light doesn’t quite reach. “You should consider closing the curtains. Or not. It’s does have a pretty nice view, after all.”

Matsukawa chokes on nothing, pressing a hand to his mouth so he doesn’t spew obscenities and spit everywhere. He’s starting to get the hint that if not the attraction, then at least the peeping is mutual.

“ _That’s_ you?” Matsukawa manages without stammering.

“What? You didn’t recognize the hair?” He tilts his head, unimpressed.

“You always had a towel around your head,” Matsukawa objects. “And it’s not as if you come to class naked with only a towel on.” 

“Should I?”

“No, you should not.”

The other laughs, “You’ve seen me _twice_ before. We got pretty up close and personal that second time.”

“And I’ve seen you almost naked.” Matsukawa points out and it’s the other man’s turn to turn a little red. It’s surprisingly complimentary against that hair of his.

“Through my _window_ , you peeper.”

“I’m pretty sure this conversation started out with you admitting you spied on me too, so let’s just call it even.”

A pleased smile, a confident, “Sounds good to me.”

Matsukawa finds himself following the other student, even though he knows the way back to the dorms like the back of his hand, like the back of his neighbour.

It’s a good night, slightly cool and Matsukawa can’t be more satisfied. It’s hard to feel satisfied in university, he’s discovered. 

They get to the door of their building—Matsukawa will forever insist it’s the same building, no matter how weirdly divided it is—quicker than Matsukawa expected. There’s something odd that happens to time when you’re satisfied.

“Shit, I forgot my key card,” he curses, when he pats the empty pockets of his black jeans and then his bag.

“Good thing we ran into each other then, huh?”

Matsukawa makes a faintly amused noise when the other cheekily winks at him and he has to admit, it’s smoother than he’d probably get away with.

The lighter haired student pulls out his university lanyard with a flourish. He must have had something exceptionally sharp on his keys because it snags roughly against his shoulder bag and then they’re both showered in a shiny storm of condoms.

They stare awkwardly at the dozens of foil squares littering the ground around their feet, their colourful packaging shining a million different colours in the dark.

“Were you trying to get lucky tonight?” Matsukawa asks dazedly. He feels the need to count the condoms but his mind is stunned too numb to get past twenty.

“ _No_ ,” Embarrassment makes the edge of the other student’s voice an octave higher and Matsukawa immediately grabs his shoulder. He isn’t about to leave just because a bunch of condoms landed on him. Being prepared isn’t exactly a turn-off in Matsukawa’s books. “They’re free at the student health center and they’re apparently dessert flavoured. Like chocolate-covered-strawberry and birthday cake and _creampuff_.”

“That’s…pretty amazing.”

“I _love_ creampuffs.”

Matsukawa wants to throw his hands up in defeat because he had not expected to be picking up a few dozen condoms after his Friday night lecture—he hadn’t even meant to follow his almost-hook up from the laundry room but he couldn’t pass up the chance when they both left the building at the same time even though they had been taking different classes.

It might have been fate, but then picking up these condoms would have to be karma and Matsukawa can’t bring himself to admit something like that.

It’s probably luck that the first thing Matsukawa picks up isn’t a condom, out of the 28 scattered around their feet but his neighbour turned almost-hook up turned mutual voyeur’s student card.

“Hanamaki Takahiro,” Matsukawa reads, using the faint light coming from inside their dorm building. “God, I almost gave you a blowjob and I didn’t even know your name.”

“Does that mean now that you do know, you’re actually gonna give me a blowjob?” Hanamaki’s embarrassment has melted away, replaced by the devious smirk Matsukawa is most familiar with, has fantasized about the most about.

“Can’t say we’re not prepared to,” Matsukawa notes, glancing pointedly down at the condoms that still lay like confetti around their feet.

“I was just _curious_ ,” Hanamaki groans, slapping a hand to his pink tinted face. “I swear I’m not a sex fiend.” He peeks through his fingers at Matsukawa. “Unless you are.”

“Have a good night, Hanamaki.”

“What? You haven’t even told me your name yet. It’s a little unfair that I still don’t know yours.”

“Matsukawa Issei.” He tells himself, it’s not fate or karma or luck, it’s not. “It’s nice to meet you.”

 

 

Matsukawa learns that Hanamaki is the kind of boy who wears obnoxiously colourful underwear because he _actually_ thinks they look good. He learns that he’s the kind of boy who hoards condoms because they’re free, and they’re flavoured like chocolate-dipped strawberries and _creampuffs_ so why wouldn’t he take 28? Matsukawa learns that Hanamaki is the kind of boy who laughs when the joke is actually funny and tells you when it’s not. And then makes a better one.

He’s just the kind of boy Matsukawa stays up playing video games with and then try to make breakfast for the next morning. He’s the kind of friend he considers his best, the one he trusts his love to.

He also happens to be exactly the kind of person Matsukawa ends up falling for, eventually, inevitably.

(Unsurprisingly.)

 

 

 

 

_Omake_

“I need to wash my _clothes_ ,” Oikawa whined. It was his third time checking the laundry room in the past hour and the same handwritten _Out of Order_ sign is still stuck up. “I’m gonna end up going to class _naked_ tomorrow.”

A sudden groan, low and nearly inaudible sounded from the other side. Oikawa narrowed his eyes, peering closer through the frosted glass window, trying to make out anything beyond blurry washing machines.

“—think there’s someone out _side_ — _mmh_.”

“Oh my god, is that you Hanamaki?” He called out as soon as his mind clicked, matching up that voice to that face _with that boyfriend_. “And Matsukawa?”

“Shh—what? No, it’s the repairman,” said Hanamaki’s unconvincing attempt at a gravely voice. “The machines are broken—all of them!”

“I’m going to _kill_ you guys!” Oikawa fumed, banging on the door.

“As if you could,” Hanamaki laughed from the other side.

“I’ll tell Iwa-chan that you were engaging in inappropriate activities in a public area!” 

“ _Shit_ —let’s get the fuck out of here.”

“Hanamaki, don’t forget your underwear!”

"Guys, why does it smell like creampuffs?"

 

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize for any mistakes! I don't have a beta whoops and I kinda just powered wrote this within 24 hours because I didn't want to risk losing interest haha. Hopefully it wasn't too hard to read!!
> 
> [Seijou Line Bot@tumblr](http://seijouline.tumblr.com/) inspired [Hanamaki's style](http://seijouline.tumblr.com/post/121123401981/what-sort-of-fashion-aesthetics-do-you-wear) and [Matsukawa's Mr. Children merch](http://seijouline.tumblr.com/post/120558894920/oikawa-mattsun-which-albums-from-mr-children) This blog is seriously golden. Huge thanks to the translator for their hard work and making me love those Seijou kids that much more!!


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